


Sins & Sensibility

by Eledhwen



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: F/M, Historical, Lady Mary, Pie & Prejudice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eledhwen/pseuds/Eledhwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1750s England, Hal Yorke kills a girl at a ball. Little does he know that he's opening the door to a relationship that will last the centuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to stick to canon as much as possible but it's tricky working out when Hal was on the blood and when not. "Pie & Prejudice" suggests that Lady Mary was killed in the mid-1700s (c.1760) but "The Greater Good" suggested that it was not meeting Mary but meeting the captivating Sylvie "over 200 years ago" that got Hal off the blood for a bit. I wish the lovely BBC people would produce a timeline or something.

The ballroom is thick with the stench of perfume, of perspiring bodies and the flowers used to decorate. The women are dressed in all their finery and the men have matched them. Hal, standing with a glass of wine on the stairs, muses that Hetty would surely love to be here, to pick a victim from the ladies who would coo and fuss over her. But little girls do not come to balls, and although Hetty is all of 200, she will never be rid of that curse. 

He puts Hetty out of his mind. He is hungry, and the table below him is laden with a great variety of fancies. There is a blonde in pale blue, her eyes dancing as she moves in the complex lines of the minuet being played. Or a redhead, in unbecoming yellow, on the arms of a Navy captain; but no, the choice of dress is unpromising.

His eyes scan the room again, and now he spots her. She is smiling at something – not laughing, but smiling, her eyes a little downcast beneath the elaborate hairstyle. She has just the right mix, Hal thinks, of innocence and beauty waiting to be shattered. He drains his glass and moves down the stairs. 

The dance has ended, and the musicians are pausing for refreshment. The girl is sitting next to two older women, one of whom Hal knows, in a vague, social way. He makes his way to them, bows, and kisses the hand of his acquaintance. 

“Lady Marsh, how delightful to see you.”

“Lord Harry. Likewise. I trust you are keeping well? Do let me introduce you; my dear Anne, this is Lord Henry Yorke. Lord Harry, the Countess of Strafford, and her daughter, the Lady Mary.”

Hal bows again, and does some more hand-kissing. “Lady Mary, may I ask you for the next dance?”

They dance. Lady Mary is an average dancer – competent, of course, but every girl of society is competent – but Hal praises her extravagantly and sets her blushing. When the music stops and he leads her back to her mother she is clearly disappointed not to move into another dance. Hal, turning away to fetch her a drink, smiles to himself. The bait has been taken. 

He watches her throughout the evening, and when, alone, she goes outside on to the terrace, he follows. It is a balmy night with the stars bright in the skies and he finds her leaning against a balustrade gazing up at them. There is nobody else around. 

She turns and smiles at his approach. “Lord Harry.”

Again, he takes her hand and kisses it, but more lingering now and he does not let go afterwards. “Do you like the stars? You can see them better at the other end of the garden, away from the light.”

Mary casts a glance back at the house. “I should not ...”

“Nobody will know, if you don't tell them,” Hal says, drawing her into the shadows. 

She lets out a nervous little giggle. “I suppose not.” She glances up at him. “I was … I was hoping we could dance again.”

Hal takes her by the waist and waltzes them down the silent, dark grassy avenue. Mary follows his lead, her breath a little short, and he spins her down on to a bench secluded between some bushes. Above them, the sky is full of stars. Mary leans back to look at them, her neck exposed invitingly. 

“It's been such a wonderful night,” she says.

“One to remember,” he says. He leans in, and kisses her. After the first startled moment she responds, inexpert but willing. She tastes of wine and the sweet sherbert she has been eating.

“We … I should not,” she murmurs, halfhearted, between kisses. 

“Nobody will find out,” Hal says. “Nobody at all. Just our secret.” He kisses harder, nipping her lips enough to draw the first drop of blood and the taste is as good as he had hoped. He sucks, swallows, moves away from her mouth to her neck and the fast-beating pulse there. 

Mary moans; the sound is a trigger. His fangs extend and then he has broken the skin and she is pouring thick and warm into him. 

She struggles, a little, for a few seconds, before going limp. He drinks until there is no more to drink and she is still and dead beside him. From a distance, she could be asleep. 

Hal takes out a handkerchief, wipes his chin and his hands meticulously, and leaves her on the bench without a backwards glance.


	2. Chapter 2

The screaming does not start until Hal is back in the house and calmly eating cake, making small talk with a militia captain. They hear cries from the garden, and someone shouts “murder!” and the music stops.

“Dear God,” says the captain, “what could possibly have happened?”

He and Hal put their drinks down and follow the crowd of male guests going to investigate. By Mary's body a man is tending to one of the young ladies, who has evidently fainted. Another is bending over Mary, examining the wound and shaking his head sorrowfully. 

But it is the figure behind the bench that has Hal's attention. She is screaming too, her coral-coloured dress unstained by blood. Catching sight of Hal, she points at him and the screams redouble. 

Hal glances around, but everyone else is very definitely human. Mary's ghost is utterly invisible to them. 

“What a dreadful thing,” the militia captain says, shaking his head. “Poor girl. I suppose the murderer must have lurked in the garden and run away?”

“I suppose he must have,” Hal agrees. “Poor girl.”

The crowd, collectively, seems to realise there is little they can do, and begins to disperse. Hal moves with them, but allows himself to drift away from the group and then away into a shadowed corner, between some yew trees. He waits until he is sure nobody can hear him before turning to Mary, who has followed him.

“You can stop shrieking now,” he says to her. “There's no point even trying to make yourself heard; I am the only one here who will be able to hear you.”

She stares at him. “You … you …”

“Killed you, yes,” says Hal. “You're dead. You are a ghost. With luck, in a few moments a door will appear to you, and you can pass through, and I will be rid of you.”

“But how is it that you can talk to me and nobody else can?” Mary complains. “And why is it that you ...”

Hal does not reply. A few yards from the shadow of the yew, he can hear men's voices as they carry Lady Mary's body back to the house. He waits until they are gone. 

“I am a vampire, my lady.”

Mary lets out a hysterical half-laugh, half-gasp. “I feel I should faint,” she says.

“You're dead,” Hal repeats. 

She stares at him, and vanishes. 

The investigation into Lady Mary's untimely death is brief and, as usual, inefficient. Murder by persons unknown is the verdict reached swiftly by the constables, and only those of the ball guests who had found the body are interviewed. She is buried two days later.

Hal goes to the funeral, along with many of the guests who are also in the area for the summer season. He has found, in the past few years, that religious symbols bother him much less. He wears gloves in church to avoid touching the prayer books, and keeps his eyes down to avoid staring too much at the crucifix and the altar, but the mere fact of being in church is no longer a problem. It is an interesting development, he muses, while pretending to pray with the other funeral-goers, and resolves to ask Mr Snow about it, next time the Old One passes by. 

The wake is back at the house where Lady Mary died, and somehow Hal is unsurprised to see her, following her mother around and attempting to talk to people. But the conversations have swiftly turned and out of Lady Strafford's earshot people are murmuring about Mary's lack of charm, her gaucheness, her lack of admirers. 

He finds her sobbing in the library, tears streaking down her face but leaving no stain on the ballgown she will wear for eternity. She looks up at his entrance. 

“Of course it's you,” she says. “Is this normal, Lord Harry? To converse with one's killer after one's death?”

“No.” Hal sits down. “I've encountered very few ghosts in my time. But, now and then, a violent death will cause someone to linger.”

Mary wipes tears away with the sleeve of her gown. “I don't want to linger.”

“I believe you need to find what your unfinished business is,” Hal ventures. “I sincerely hope it is not haunting me.”

She sniffs. “I have never had any business. I have never done anything with my life, and you have snatched it from me! Why me, Lord Harry?”

Hal considers. “You seemed … wistful. It made me hungry.” He smiles at Mary, but she turns away. 

“And how many other girls have there been, like me, Lord Harry?” she asks him, though she does not look at him. 

“I lost count two hundred years ago.” He waits, lets her think about it, and watches with no surprise as she looks back at him with horror etched all over her pretty, blotched features. “Mary, Mary, it's what I am.”

“All the time? If you stop, what happens?”

The question makes him pause. He has tried, twice now, to stop killing, both times overwhelmed by the enormity of a particularly brutal and bloody spree. But the desire for blood has won out over the desire for peace, and at the moment he does not particularly want to stop again. 

“It's possible,” he hedges. “I will not die, without the blood.”

Lady Mary reaches out a smooth, cold, ghostly hand and grasps his hand with it. “Then stop, Lord Harry. For me. Do not put another family through what you have put my family through.”

Hal raises the hand to his lips. “My lady, you are good indeed. I will endeavour to do what you ask.” He brushes his lips over her skin, and leaves her sitting there in the library.


	3. Chapter 3

The season in London is over, the heat driving the rich and the titled out of the capital once more. Hal has rented the same house in the country again, and finds himself at the same sort of parties with the same group of people. He is bored, and he is taking his boredom out on his staff. Already one of them has met his end, a stake plunged in a lazy heart, and the others are running scared. Compounding the boredom and frustration is the need to be subtle about kills, and already he is regretting the decision to come back here. He is contemplating inventing a sudden family crisis and vanishing, possibly to Italy or France.

But first, there is the grand ball of the summer, at the house where last year he killed a girl and met her ghost. He dresses meticulously, in midnight-blue velvet and silk, and sets out to be fashionably late without being rudely so. 

Lady Marsh is one of the first to greet him. They exchange the usual pleasantries about the weather and each other's health.

“To be frank with you, my lady,” says Hal, passing her a glass of champagne from a waiter, “I am surprised the family are holding the ball this year.”

“After poor Mary?” asks Lady Marsh. “They felt it was what she would have wanted.”

Hal looks across the room, to where 'poor Mary' is sitting on an empty couch, watching the dancing. “Doubtless they were right,” he agrees. “She did love to dance.”

He sits with Lady Marsh and watches this year's dancers for a while, and through them, Mary on the other side of the room. After two dances she gets up and winds her way through the crowd to sit by Hal's side. He is acutely aware of her, but does not turn to even glance at her. When the next dance ends, he excuses himself and crosses the floor to ask a pretty blonde girl to dance the next with him. 

By some careful selection of partners and pauses for conversation, he manages to avoid Mary for the best part of an hour. But eventually she comes to his side and starts talking and it becomes much harder to ignore her. 

Hal finishes his drink, makes some excuse about it being too warm, and heads out into the garden, apparently alone but really with Lady Mary by his side. 

“I had hoped you would have passed on by now,” Hal tells her, once they are clear of other guests. “Have you not found your door?”

She shakes her head, mournfully. “I have spent a year reading,” she says. 

“Good lord,” Hal says, about the only thing he can think of to say that does not involve laughter. 

Mary seizes his hand. 

“And you, Lord Harry – have you done as I asked? Have you stopped killing?”

He thinks about his last victim, a farm girl from the next village; of the sweetness of her blood and the feel of her under his body. Then he meets Mary's eyes, and makes a decision. “I have, my lady. I thought of you, and restrained myself. It was hard, for a while, but now I know I have done the right thing.” 

She smiles, and he knows he has her fooled. “I knew you could do it,” she says, softly.

It is late, by the time the ball ends, and as Hal climbs into his carriage he sees Mary standing on the doorstep, the departing guests somehow moving around her as though she were a stone in a stream. He looks away, and orders the carriage to drive to the inn on the road to London, where there is usually a good chance of finding a traveller passing through who will not be missed for a while.

The year passes. He moves from country to town, idling away the days with reading and music and art and the nights with blood and sex and violence. Mr Snow appears, in the depths of winter, and must be entertained. 

In the summer Hal resolves to go to a different county, but, as though drawn to it, he stops on the way and wanders through the garden of Mary's house. On the bench where she died he discovers her, sitting pale in the sunshine. He lies to her, again, glibly, and promises, despite himself, to come back.

It becomes a routine. On the way somewhere, he will stop, and see Lady Mary. He finds himself falling into character more easily as the years go by, though the killing continues.

Some twenty years after Lady Mary's death, she is still at the house. She seems content enough, in her distracted way, and Hal warns her that he may not make their regular visit the following year; he is called to France on business. “I would write,” he says, “but I cannot write to someone who does not exist.” 

She nods, and holds his hand tightly before letting it go. 

He does not expect anything to change. But in France, there is Sylvie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a while prevaricating over whether Mary did stop Hal drinking for a time, or not. I came to the conclusion that as I've written it - a carefully-selected kill in one night - that doesn't give Hal the impetus he evidently needs to stay clean (witness: the Sylvie monologue last week, Leo, and I'm guessing a couple of other really important people in his life). So he's lying to her, which is entirely in character. Hal's a lot of things, but being honest with himself and other people isn't one of his virtues.


	4. Chapter 4

Hal comes back to England once during the time he is with Sylvie, and for once, he is able to go to see Mary and not lie. It is a strange feeling. He tells her about Sylvie – or at least, he tells her that he's met Sylvie, not that it's Sylvie who has helped him through this period of being clean – and though there is a wistful look on Lady Mary's face, she seems happy for him. 

And so he keeps coming back. It becomes a habit. When in England, he visits Lady Mary. Sometimes he can be honest with her, and talk frankly about the struggle of staying away from blood. Other times, he will come to her with someone's life-force still hot in his throat, and glibly chat about the weather, about the politics and court gossip of the day, and she seems none the wiser. 

During the wars she dusts fluff off the lapels of whichever regiment's jacket he happens to be in that year. In her Georgian dress she admires his new fashions and talk of whatever music or actor is popular. She thinks the top hat and tails he turns up in in the 1840s are amusing.

He visits Mary less in the early years of the 20th century. There is a war on with the werewolves, and Lord Henry Yorke, vampire commander, has little time for a social life. When he does visit, the house has been turned into a hospital and Mary is floating around amid nurses and wounded officers with a pained expression on her face. 

Fergus, who is the only one of Hal's regular companions to have the guts to say anything, thinks his visits insane. In public, Hal laughs off the comment; in private, he shows Fergus creative use of a crucifix, and Fergus desists from mentioning Lady Mary after that. 

For two years in the 1950s, the visits stop. Pacing a dark room, behind boarded-up windows in Southend, Hal thinks of Lady Mary, and hopes that perhaps she has found her door and is not missing him. But when he and Leo finally decide he is safe to be let out, and Leo drives him to the house – now a museum – he finds her still drifting along the galleries, gazing vaguely at the portraits. 

“Where _have_ you been, my lord?” she asks, courtesying low. 

Hal, his body automatically responding to the courtesy with a bow, makes up some story about being away. “But I am back now, and living in Southend, with friends,” he says. “A werewolf, and another ghost, as a matter of fact. They are here, somewhere, seeing the house.”

A visitor comes past him, desperately close, and he flinches. Mary does not seem to notice, and he moves them away into a quieter room where they can make polite conversation. Hal talks desperately about things he has listened to on the radio, about the economy and politics, and Mary listens. She does not seem to have changed since the day of her death; she is still as demure and timid as ever. When Leo and Pearl come to find him, Hal is more relieved than he cares to admit, and he is glad to leave with them.

He keeps going back, year after year, usually driven by Leo, although as the 70s turn into the 80s he goes with only Pearl as a chaperone. Pearl and Mary do not get on, and Pearl generally sits in the teashop while Hal visits Mary, before spending the journey back to Southend grumbling about the fashions on display. 

The annual visit comes around just after he moves into Honolulu Heights. He finds it surprisingly hard to break the news of Leo's death and Pearl's passing to Mary – after all, she has been waiting for her door for much longer than Pearl – but she takes it calmly, and listens to his description of Annie and Tom and the baby with interest. Hal almost thinks she is laughing at the thought of him with a baby. 

He does not tell her about how close he came to killing the shopkeeper, nor about how utterly alone he feels without Leo and Pearl. 

But the long years of half-truths take their toll. When, finally, in the living room in Barry, Alex forces the two of them to confess to each other, Hal feels the weight lift off him. True, it is replaced by a different weight, a new sort of guilt, but after all, she too has been lying to him. Neither of them were ever quite what they seemed to each other; they had both been playing a part, from the moment they met. 

Mary leaves, and Alex tells him she is planning to travel. Hal, preoccupied with other things, merely finds he is glad. She has been a long part of his long life, but she deserves her freedom at last.


End file.
